Cinder and Smoke
by usakeh
Summary: He was Josh Lyman, the White House Deputy Chief of Staff. He wasn’t about to let his own terror take that away from him. Not now, and not ever.


_Cinder and smoke, you'll ask me to pray for rain. With ash in your mouth, you'll ask it to burn again._

(Cinder and Smoke – Iron & Wine)

Josh Lyman leaned back in his chair. Then, in an instant, he flung himself forward, slamming a fist down onto his desk. His eyes were narrowed; he felt like they were about to overflow with sheer frustration. It was late, and getting later. There was work that needed to be done. The papers had piled up on his desk, shifting into uneven stacks that spread out onto the floor. The messages had accumulated on his phone; from his seat he could see the orange light blinking steadily. There were too many of them, now; if he didn't start deleting them nobody else would be able to call. Perhaps it was better that way.

Josh stared down at the sheet he was supposed to be reading. No matter how many times he ran his eyes across the words he couldn't comprehend them, couldn't even pay enough attention to understand. Give yourself a break, Ben had told him. Give yourself some time, Ben had told him. Give yourself a chance. But how was he supposed to wait when he was working in the West Wing? How was he supposed to give himself a chance when nobody else would? He sighed.

Every time he'd finally convinced himself he'd beaten it, the flashbacks would flare back up again. Every time he was sure he was safe from the sudden, overwhelming panic it would remind him that he wasn't. He was bound to it. You've got to learn to cope with it, Ben had said. Give yourself a break. Give yourself some time. Give yourself a chance. Josh took a deep breath, staring at the work before him with an increasing sense of desperation. It used to be so simple, before. He was Josh Lyman. He was competent, confident. Now his only confidence came as suddenly as the panics did. For a few hours he'd float above it all, swaggering down the hallways and smiling at everyone he passed. Then the feeling would crack like thin ice and he'd spiral down. There was never anybody there to stop him, then, and when they were he only regretted it afterwards.

You'll recover soon, Ben had told him. It's only a matter of time and finding the right medication. He didn't have the time to waste; he couldn't possibly take medication. Now he did both, reluctantly, and it still hadn't helped. Josh got to his feet and began pacing. He wanted to break another window; he wanted to pound the walls with his fists; he wanted to scatter all the sheets of paper with their lines and lines of incomprehensible type and tear them up. He was furious. And he didn't have anybody to blame but himself.

There is a very thin line between intense anxiety and euphoria. He'd realized that weeks ago, when he'd stepped out into the city and seen it glow like glass in the sunlight. He'd been terrified, at first; every shadow had scared him, everything had seemed so very threatening. The feeling hadn't faded, either; instead, it had blossomed out into something staggeringly beautiful. He'd stared at the traffic lights in awe. He'd looked at the Washington Memorial with wonder. He'd wanted to run into the middle of the street and stop all the cars so they could stare at the way the Capitol shone coolly in the winter night. That's crazy, he'd told himself. They'll lock you up for good. So he'd walked on, smiling and feeling like he held a secret within him nobody else could possibly know.

He could almost convince himself that those moments made it worth it, in the end. He'd been places nobody else could find; he knew something he couldn't even begin to share. Sam had given him a strange look one day when he'd nearly run out of the West Wing. He'd been so nervous, so wired; he'd had to dig his nails into the palm of his hand to keep himself from sprinting out right in the middle of an important meeting. Once he'd gotten outside it had nearly been overwhelming. Sam had glanced at him. What's the matter? Nothing, he'd said; I'm just anxious, I guess. Sam had frowned. Why don't you go inside? I can't, he'd replied. And I don't even want to. His arms were stretched out towards the sky. Don't you see how the city looks tonight? Sam had looked up and then back at him. I hate to ask this, Josh, he'd begun, but are you high? He'd laughed. No. No way. And inside he'd known the truth. Yes, in more ways than you can ever imagine.

Josh closed his eyes. He was so behind in his work. There was nothing he hated more than the feeling he got when he was behind. It was almost like drowning, to him. It was no secret that Josh Lyman lived for his work. It was a secret that he could barely do it, these days; it was a secret he struggled like hell to keep. I need to find a balance, he'd told himself; he'd said it over and over and over again. And he couldn't. Or maybe he just didn't. The prospect of that overwhelming perfection was always there, siren-like, singing him to shipwreck. Did it even matter, though? Couldn't, wouldn't – it was all the same, in the end.

Josh shuddered; then he returned to his desk and sat down slowly. The anger was still there. It never left him, pulsing through his veins like poison. It was late, and getting later. He picked up his pen. He was Josh Lyman, the White House Deputy Chief of Staff. He wasn't about to let his own terror take that away from him. Not now, and not ever. So he pulled out another piece of paper, and began to read…


End file.
